


When was the last time they...?

by Skizoraven (Quezsam)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, those poor plants, we all know it's just Crowley extrapolating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 22:42:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19777963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quezsam/pseuds/Skizoraven
Summary: When was the last time they…?He couldn’t remember.How long had it been? How many years, how many centuries? The world had become so cold lately, so distant... People barely even looked at each other’s eyes, some kinds of contact were silently forbidden, as if it were a shameful thing, ridiculous, even childish to do.





	When was the last time they...?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my amazing and patient beta Kathee_HDS, she helped a lot with my grammar and with her super encouraging words. I strongly recommend you all to read her stories, she's utterly talented.

When was the last time they…?

He couldn’t remember.

How long had it been? How many years, how many centuries? The world had become so cold lately, so distant... People barely even looked at each other’s eyes, some kinds of contact were silently forbidden, as if it were a shameful thing, ridiculous, even childish to do.

Oh, the irony of that! Neither had been children in the first place. At least not in the human sense. Children of soul, they were long ago, before Time, before the Fall, when everything seemed so simple and white, and sterile, and eternal, eternal, eternal…

How short eternity is when your brothers and sisters fight against you because some of you dared to ask questions. But questions weren’t meant to be asked, as Everything was Perfect and Absolute. You can’t question your Parent, as She’s always right, isn’t it?

Crowley moved his legs once again, straightening them, closing them, as if they were independent elements of his body that didn’t want to just be quiet. The bed was comfortable, his jet black silk pajamas smooth and cosy, and he was tired _as hell_ , but utterly unable to sleep, it didn’t matter how much he was desiring it.

When was the last time they…?

The demon shook his head. _No. No, don’t think about it, about him, just sleep, you need to sleep, damnit._

Ah, yes, Glamorgan, 1921. There was that itinerant photographer who seemed to be looking for something he called everyday nature, despite he actually only wanted to take pictures of people.

Aziraphale and Crowley met to do some blessing and tempting to King George V. It had something to do with a bank, the demon couldn’t recall, but in the end they decided that, since both would just cancel each other out, they could spend a day in the county, much to the angel’s delight. Damn if he didn’t like picnics.

Crowley tossed and turned on his bed. Memories were now flowing like a river, he wouldn’t be able to sleep, and now remembering the angel’s face, _his smile_ , was being painfully hopeless.

What was the name of the photographer? Sainer? Sander? That German small man with his giant camera, who would look at them and inmediatly ask them for a picture. Aziraphale had been _so keen on_ the idea, his blue eyes shimmered as he dragged Crowley in front of the camera.

_Just be natural_ , the photographer demaned, and they were. Aziraphale sat on a wood bench there at the park, right beside the river, and Crowley at his side, with one leg over the angel’s thigh, their arms interlaced, a glimmering angel almost pressing his cheek against the demon’s.

_One more_ , the German man asked, and angel and demon stood side by side, Aziraphale circling Crowley’s chest, smiling wide and happy, with his head almost on Crowley’s shoulder.

The photographer asked for their address, for he would send a copy of the photos for free. After three or four months he was true to his word and a couple of small sepia pictures inside a brown envelope arrived to Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Crowley sat on his bed, frustrated. Ok, to hell with this. He didn’t even need to sleep anyways, he could just miracle away his exhaustion.

Except he couldn’t, of course, as it was not tiredness at all, but he refused to word the feeling. He tried so hard to just ignore the pressure on his chest, that ever so annoying tingling under his navel. And when he forced his kitchen to produce a cup of dark bitter coffee, he discovered with extreme exasperation he wasn’t able to do something as ridiculously simple as swallowing.

When was the first time they…?

Crowley furrowed. The Wall, of course. The last remains of the very first rainstorm were starting to fade away, only some latecomer drops were falling over the two of them. Aziraphale was soaked, while Crowley was mostly dry except for his feet and wings, which were a bit wet. The angel folded his wings after shaking them to expel as much water as possible; his blonde-almost-white hair stuck on his forehead and temples, and the demon remembered he looked at him with awe.

Angels did not touch each other. They _loved_ , of course, it was a blueprint in them, but it was a generic love, impersonal.

_You’re drenched_ , Crowley said, still surprised, still amazed.

Aziraphale smiled shyly. Oh Lord, how the demon felt like he was Falling all over again. The angel closed the remaining space between the two and reached out a hand to Crowley’s hair, softly taking a wet red lock between his fingers.

_I’m afraid I couldn’t completely protect you, dear_ , the angel softly remarked.

Angels did not touch each other. But this one did. To a demon. To the Vile Serpent.

Crowley strolled furiously through his charcoal flat. From one room to another, as if searching for something that would not be there, for it was not a physical object but a feeling. The demon stopped in front of his verdant plants, those poor, gorgeous yet terrified creatures, and his first instinct was to yell at them, treat them as bad as he could, destroy them, every single leaf, every single root, as he wanted to destroy himself sometimes.

But suddenly he remembered when Aziraphale came there, after the almost-Apocalypse, when they temporarily swapped bodies. The angel looked at the plants and his eyes almost watered, and Crowley _knew_. He never said a word, neither of them did, but he knew Aziraphale felt the emotions stored there, he knew the angel could almost hear the shouts and the insults to the plants. To himself. _Grow better, be better, stop being useless._

And Aziraphale gently touched a leaf and said to the plant _You’re beautiful, you’re perfect._

Crowley clenched his teeth and rubbed his eyes. Don’t you dare, he told to his eyes. But lately his body did not seem to obey his commands at all.

The phone rang, surprising Crowley and breaking that dangerous thread of thoughts. The answering machine spoke, and then Aziraphale’s voice. _Come to the bookshop maybe? I just found the best patisserie and couldn’t help myself! There’s some nice Cabernet Sauvignon too, don’t be late, my dear!_

The shop was as always, except for some unusual _Just William_ vintage collection that appeared after Adam Young restored the place.

Crowley sat on his favourite sofa, as usual, breathing in that essence of old leather and paper surrounding them. He had an impressive sense of smell, for he was able to use his tongue to catch even the smaller particles: Aziraphale’s cologne, Aziraphale’s clothes, Aziraphale’s _soul_.

The angel served the clear bubbly champagne and a beautiful plate filled with macarons. They looked delicious and colourful, no wonder why he’d wanted to buy them as soon as he’d seen them. Aziraphale sat at his favourite chair, fleecy and soft, in front of the demon, and they chatted about nothing and about everything for what felt like hours.

Eventually, the angel ended up sitting next to Crowley, his glass in his hand and cheerfully gesticulating while explaining a magic trick he saw few days ago on the streets, where the magician was playing with cards and fire. To be honest, the demon wasn’t even listening, he was _absorted_ on Aziraphale as a whole, feeling incredibly lucky and terribly unfortunate at the same time, and he suddenly felt like this eyes were about to betray him again. His sunglasses were folded on the table, but wearing them wouldn’t change anything, as the angel was perfectly able to see through them.

_Oh, my dear!_ , he said, stopping his motion and setting his glass next to the bottle, _What’s wrong?_

Crowley had no idea of what Aziraphale was talking about, until he suddenly felt his cheeks humid with his own weakness and he wanted to escape; he even wanted to discorporate for Satan’s sake, he wanted to-

Aziraphale cupped his face with both hands, locking his amazingly blue eyes on Crowley’s, and the demon knew he was completely lost in them forever. He felt his nose aching for some reason, his golden eyes blurred, and his throat felt as if it was completely closed. His lips trembled, unable to speak for fear of not being able to shut up ever again.

_Crowley, dear, I’m here, I’m here._ The angel embraced him, really embraced him, with arms and wings, marvelous white pristine wings, protecting him once again. His voice soft as clouds next to the demon’s ear, and Crowley felt as if the last time had been not only a hundred years ago, in that sunny park and in front of a camera, but closer to six thousand. He slowly, very slowly, raised his arms and placed his hands around the angel’s body. Oh Lord, _oh lord_ , he was so soft, how could he have forgotten how comfortable he was between his arms, how _protected_ he felt.

_You’re my Heaven_ , Crowley whispered. He felt Aziraphale tighten his hug, and everything was okay. Everything was finally okay.

\-----------------------


End file.
